Red Tide
by Urwen
Summary: Short piece of AxI smut. Warning: Icky. Involves menstruation. If you get bored with the scene setting parts, skip to the end.


Sir Integra Wingates Hellsing inspected her underwear.

'Oh blast.' She said, and threw the offending garment on the floor. Then she imagined the look Walter would give her if he had seen that (he wouldn't say anything, of course, just look at her in that twinkly-old-man knowing way of his that always made one wonder if, inside, he was laughing his arse off) and quickly picked it up and slid it into the laundry basket by the door.

Blast. She'd known it was coming, of course. She always did. It was a sixth sense some women had, and if anyone was qualified, probably by Royal Appointment, to have a sixth sense, or possibly even a seventh or eighth, it was Sir Integra Wingates Hellsing. Still, she always seemed to ignore the warnings, the slight twinges in the abdominal area, the sudden thoughts of it apparently from no-where often when one was thinking of something quite unrelated, hoping they'd go away. It never does, and never did. She lifted the lid of the laundry basket and adjusted her glasses. Just to be on the safe side, she had better take them to the laundry room herself. One never knew who was picking up the scent even now. But first things first.

After a brief rummage in the awful chinoiserie dressing table drawers, she found what she sought. A box of tampons. Unwrapping one and removing the bottom half of her pyjama trousers (the pyjamas in question were pinstriped, impeccably tailored and had the Hellsing crest, the knight's helmet, steel, no bars, visor open and the shield, quartered gules et sable, supported by a bat passant and a royal unicorn rampant on the breast pocket, as did the handkerchief within said pocket) she placed one long, shapely leg on the corner of her bed and carefully inserted the short white object. She used the finger kind as she couldn't bear the sharp, coldness of the applicator ones. And with a house full of vampires, (not to mention soldiers) and a tendency to wear pale coloured dress uniforms, towels were quite out of the question. Tampon comfortably sited, she pulled the trousers back on and donned her dressing gown and slippers.

She went furtively down the servant's stairs, musing briefly on the absurdity of having to sneak around in her own home, and found her way through the vast tiled expanse of the kitchen to the laundry room at the back. It had been a while since she had been down here, but the rusting unused mangle still stood in the corner, like some ancient wheeled dinosaur whose bones had long turned to black iron and red powder. She edged around it to the washing machine and found Seras Victoria stood before said white ablutionary fixture regarding it quizzically. The police girl turned and saw the master of her of her master stood before her in her jimjams clutching a pair of stained knickers. She was suddenly reminded of an unpleasant childhood incident on holiday in Weston-Super-Mare involving one of the girls from the orphanage and a very unfortunate freak donkey-riding accident. Her crimson eyes bulged.

'Bloody hell.' She said.

'Oh for goodness sake!' Integra said, angrily. 'Is it that obvious?'

'Er… I…er… have to… guns… something to do with.. training…yes… bye!' Seras Victoria covered her mouth in abject horror and fled the laundry room, leaving all her washing behind. Integra sighed, padded over on slippered feet, glanced at the forlorn and discarded washing and then regarded the machine. It had three completely indistinguishable white turny-knobs that had tiny pictures next to them. What the tiny pictures represented was not extant, although several resembled miniature vortexes of different colours, irons, and what might possibly have been some kind of bipolar flagellated bacteria. Integra sighed again and looked at Seras Victoria's washing basket and then at the underwear in her hand. She lifted up a uniform and slid the knickers underneath. There was undoubtedly nothing new about bloodstained underwear in Seras Victoria's washing basket and she could always return and steal them from the washing line later. Integra reached into the pocket of her dressing gown and produced a small notepad and pen, on which she wrote. 'Walter – Wash these please – I.' She sucked on the pen thoughtfully for a moment, drew a neat line though 'please' and then added 'As soon as possible.' She nodded, satisfied, tore off the piece of paper and placed it on top of the laundry basket. Then she left the room and re-entered the kitchen.

It was cold in the kitchen, despite the stove burning, undoubtedly preparing for breakfast. The grey early morning light skulked sluggishly in through the windows over the sinks, curtly informing her of the prospect rain on the way as the photons ambled past. She wrapped her dressing gown tight around her and remembered when there had been a fire in the black grate warming the kitchen. It had been a morning not too unlike this one, the first time she had woken up to find a red stain on her underwear. Raised by her father and then by Walter, she had been uncertain of what to do. Had she been other than the last scion of Hellsing, she would undoubtedly have had a mother to enquire of, but Integra's mother had died shortly after her birth in circumstances which were alluded to, but never made clear. Whilst her father had been alive, the matter had never been spoken of, but after she had declared herself mistress of the house, she had demanded Walter fill her in. Walter was mentally secure in his position as a servant. He obeyed, he did not question his mistress' orders. He told her everything. Later, Integra went to look up 'Post-natal depression' in one of the large medical dictionaries in the library. Sadly, the sterile, clinical description failed to explain why a person would be found dead in a bathtub full of blood with the words 'House of Hell' carved on their arms and forehead. Integra was not the sort of girl who would blame herself for the death of a woman she never knew, but that did not prevent the nightmares from coming. She shivered, and it was not due to the cold. That morning, she had found her underwear stained and had decided that Walter was not the best person to ask about this. She had gone down to the kitchen. Back then there had been cook, a huge floury Bedfordshire woman with an amusing accent, seven children and arms like bolsters. I was rumoured even Alucard did not dare enter her kitchen, although this was probably malicious gossip. Unsure of how to approach the starched, curly-haired mountain ('Excuse me, I have blood on my knickers' Seemed inappropriate) she had simply held out the underwear and said 'Er…'.

'Well.' The woman had said. 'Seems like you're a woman now, Ma'am. You got your monthlies.'

Integra had stood, blank faced and said, ever so politely: 'Pardon?'

'Aw, bless you girlie, they ain't nivver told yer, 'ave they?'

Integra had shaken her head, slowly, reminding herself repeatedly that she was the head of the house of Hellsing and the head of the house of Hellsing did not cry, especially not when she was almost fourteen. 

The woman had smiled, her pudgy face squishing up at the sides. 'You come here ducky and let me finish this pastry and I'll tell you all about it….' 

Integra realised her feet were freezing and left the kitchen and the memories behind. The backstairs were also cold, but once beyond the corridor she was in the realm of carpets and central heating again. When she returned to her room, she found her bedclothes had been turned down and the box of tampons neatly replaced in the drawer, along with a fresh box. Blast Walter, he had to be marking it on the calendar or something. She checked the carriage clock on the table. The hands showed a quarter past eight. Integra decided that all things considered, she would like a lie-in. She removed her dressing gown and got back into bed. She stared up at the velvet hangings above her head and made yet another mental note to get a less pretentious bed. The curtains hanging to her left stirred a little in a breeze. She glanced at the window. The sashes were closed.

'Do stop lurking, Alucard.' She said.

He chuckled in his usual infuriating way and stepped out from behind the curtain. Integra sat up in bed and glared at him over her spectacles. 'I should have known you'd come sniffing around like a dog on heat.'

'Forgive me. I had forgotten master does not like to be reminded that she is a woman.'

'That has nothing to do with it.' Integra said, severely. She was far to used to his baiting to succumb to a simple one like that.

'Master, I am used so to the taste of the Head of Hellsing's blood, is it any wonder I come when it calls me?' Alucard said, playfully.

'Very well.' Integra sighed, pulling the covers all the way back and sliding off the bed slightly so she was sitting next to where he stood. 'I suppose the dog wants feeding and I certainly deserve a little enjoyment. Kneel, servant.'

Alucard obliged, licking his lips with his near-prehensile tongue. 

'Ah ah.' Integra held up a finger. 'Subjugate yourself properly first.'

Alucard bent down so his forehead was practically touching the ground and proceeded to lick her feet and grovel. Integra smiled, satisfied.

'You may remove your master's clothing. Slowly. If you tear the hems again, you shall have nothing.'

Alucard, who was clearly enjoying himself immensely, with exaggerated, almost mocking care and attention, removed her trousers, revealing the (insert lyrical and unrealistic metaphor here) of her pale-blonde pubic hair and treating himself to a maddening blast of blood-scent. Integra gracefully opened her legs and allowed him access by removing her tampon and flicking it with amazing deftness into the wastepaper bin in the corner of the room. Alucard looked at the bin, wistfully.

'I do wish you wouldn't flush those things away, Master.'

'Don't be disgusting. And don't you dare touch me with those cold hands.'

'Haha, that is just what my first wife used to say. Before she threw herself off the tower, of course.'

'Of course. Now get on with it.' Integra waved a hand impatiently. 

Shortly afterwards, she collapsed backwards onto the bed, marvelling at the agility and length of his tongue, which somehow managed to reach all the areas one never could with one's fingers.

'Mm, excellent, excellent work.' She murmured, writhing with pleasure. She felt the touch of teeth against her clitoris and clipped him round the ear like a disobedient child.

'No.'

Alucard laughed into her vagina, sending little bursts of serotonin up her spine to her brain and made an awful slurping noise in retaliation. Embarrassingly, it was the vibrations from that noise that were just enough to cause stars to burst behind her eyes and her pelvic floor muscle to clamp down on his tongue and go into spasms of delight, spraying mingled blood, secretions, shed endothelial cells and the inevitable lactobacilli that always get caught up in these things (despite living quite harmlessly in the vagina and also being very useful in cheese-making) into his waiting mouth. With one final spasm, the orgasm subsided and she basked in the warm glow.

'Is master pleased?' Alucard asked, a mockery of deference, his face smeared with menstrual blood.

'Quite.' Integra nodded, straightening her glasses and staring at the canopy. 'Well done. Now get out.'

Alucard, stood, bowed, and vanished into thin air.

In a short while, Integra sat up, went over to the drawer, found a new tampon and replugged herself. Then she put her pyjama trousers back on for the second time that morning, and went back to bed. 


End file.
